


ebrius ad astra

by VioletLopez



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1000 words of depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicide Attempt, but it gets better, enjolras is sad bu grantaire makes him happy, eventually, lots of talk about art, sad boys, unhealthy relationship for a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletLopez/pseuds/VioletLopez
Summary: latin: drunk on the stars-a tale of growing old, in five acts-"enjolras was a catalyst."





	ebrius ad astra

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hock/gifts).



i. _nolite inebriari, rei uanitate permotus es_

enjolras didn’t like to write. he loved to write; he adored writing; he was born again through it, brought to the culmination of understanding and beauty that every religion he didn’t believe in spoke of. the sound of his fingers hitting the typewriter was the pearly gate; the smell of ink staining his fingers was heaven. the world’s stubborn, bigoted ways were his cross, and his resurrection was the revolution. no- enjolras didn’t like to write. he felt- no, he knew- that he would have written within he liked to or not. the cosmos, the universe, directed him to the written word, to the power that he could harness and handle. there was no other path for him than that of epiphany and guidance. enjolras was not a writer; enjolras was writing. to every word he punched out he gave himself, all of himself, every bit of passion and anger he had ever felt. he was his own god, his own belief, his own salvation. enjolras was the angry young man, the foot in his mouth, heart in his hand that they played about on the radio. enjolras was his own revolution.

he wrote a plea to the people, to give them hope, to ignite their minds and their hearts. he spoke of himself and those that stood with him; he wrote the words of their culmination, their victorious future rising like the sun if only the people could be the horizon. “drunk off fear,” he declared, “sobered by you.”  
(he learned to say it in latin, too, because there was a man in the apartment downstairs that thought classical languages lovely, and enjolras wanted that man to find him lovely too)  
enjolras was a catalyst, at least to himself, and his revolution was unwittingly inspired by the man with the green vest and the uncut hair.

 

ii. _ebrius est de ignotis, intellectus autem ebrius est_

grantaire did not paint for himself. it had begun that way, so many years ago, using color and shape as a form of expression, as a way to comprehend, to process, the world which he despised; yet now, he had come of himself and begun to comprehend an idea much larger: the world, in all its horrifying glory, was in need of some small voice, some slight whisper, that inspired just one single thought of peace. some understanding of unity in a society rendering itself empty. grantaire painted for the lonely man, for the broken woman, for the crying child, for every abandoned or damaged identity roaming lost and ghostly through the streets; but never for himself.

he painted drunk, often, and oftentimes the paintings depicted a single subject. grantaire had drunkenly composed pictures of the man upstairs so many a time that he had his features perfectly memorized- the curve of his lip, the broadness of his shoulder, his forehead, his tumbling golden curls- all ingrained within his mind and memory, brought to life again and again. grantaire painted drunk often, and often sat drunk on his couch, thinking of the man he was painting. “drunk off the unknown,” he would say, pondering how it might feel to touch the man’s hand, or his cheek, “drunk off the understanding,” because such an experience would bring him, undoubtedly, to his knees.

(he learned to say it in latin, because the simplicity of french seemed too removed from the godlike man he admired)

grantaire was a whisper of protest, revolting in his own quiet way for the man with the whole sky in his eyes.

 

iii. _sobrius conatur praesens, praeteritum et speculum sine fundo_

in combination, the whisper and the catalyst are the revolution, yes? the whisper, in it’s stubborn, pervasive ways, will convince of the catalyst’s cause- the soft, underlying promises solidify the declarations. without the catalyst, the whisper will be useless; without the whisper, the catalyst will be nothing.

“what’s your name?” asks the golden-haired man, and the sun has risen in him, because he has been waiting, pining to know for so long now.

“grantaire,” comes the reply. “and you?” wonder is in his eyes; the god- the god!- walks the earth.

“enjolras.”

the men are nothing. they are broken, empty vessels of fear; they have nothing to offer but their dreams, their wild souls. enjolras’ passion is nothing but terror; grantaire’s message is nothing but a plea. they beg for hope because they have none; they pray for a change because they have nothing to lose and nothing is all that this system is gaining them. though they fight, they never dream they will reap the benefits. they have lived too long, now. they dream that someday, some small child will have a dream that comes true because of the change they brought. it’s for the people that they fight. fighting for themselves would do no good; there is no benefit in fighting for nothing.

they are drunk on misery, and wish only for their foggy heads to clear. “the future sobers you,” enjolras says one night, the of them together on grantaire’s couch, “but the past is a bottomless glass.”  


that night, granatire kisses him, and enjolras feels the stains on his soul waver.

 

iv. _omnes biberetis, tu nunc sobrii_

it’s true that grantaire’s touch makes enjolras’ sunrise, and his smile makes enjolras’ world turn, and his kiss is more beautiful than all the stars. its true that enjolras feels more awake, more alive than he ever has.  
this, he thinks, is the beginning of love.

but enjolras has only ever known the beginning. he is a catalyst, and after the beginning has begun, the catalyst is of no use. so enjolras’ life has gone by, and so he has become accustomed to. he begins leaving first in the morning; he begins pulling away from touches and kisses; he is the second to say he loves and the second to say he wants. he gives not what he is given, but what he expects, and he is the first to notice grantaire’s eyes begin fading in sadness.

he feels his soul staining itself anew, and he cries; secretly, quietly, so that grantaire won’t hear. he mourns for himself, for he sees no use for the catalyst anymore.

“you drank all of you away,” grantaire mutters at a closed door, alone and with his legs pulled up to his chest. “but you are sober now.” no longer foolish enough for a silly painter with uncut hair; no longer humble enough to let his godly fingers brush a mortal. no longer loving enough to give grantaire that which he has always needed.

grantaire does not want to be a burden, so the next time it is him closing the door.

 

v. _ebrius ad astra_

enjolras cannot find a reason to be a catalyst anymore; enjolras, the writer, the writing, a catalyst in and of himself; enjolras cannot be what he is anymore.

he closes his eyes and sees grantaire, lovely, lost grantaire, with whom he had been the beginning and the beginning of the end. the finality of grantaire’s final words to him haunt his sleep, his nights and his days and all the time in the between. his soul is stained so darkly that he cannot see; he is so drunk off misery that walking, breathing is impossible. enjolras has lost everything with losing the pretty painter he admired so; enjolras has but one thing left to lose.

enjolras wants to be remembered. he wants his name to be synonymous with revolution and uprising, because if he is forgotten, then he truly never was anything at all. this is what he pens to combeferre, in a letter that his hands shake writing. his sun has set completely. his sky has shattered to pieces, and there is nothing left for him to fight for. he is nothing.

and tonight the cosmos looks like it has opened just for him, more stars visible than he has ever seen before. the wind is whip sharp this high up, hitting him harder than any man ever had- ever would. he wobbles precariously as he heaves himself over the railing and looks over the world he had been fighting for, the home of the misery that intoxicated and poisoned him. he tilts his head back, his eyes taking in the stars. “beautiful, aren’t they?” he whispers, and he hopes that some god somewhere will inscribe his likeness into the heavens.

“enjolras,” there is a hand in his. “enjolras,” an arm around his shoulders, pulling him back. “enjolras, darling, please.”

grantaire sounds like god is dying.

“grantaire,” he says, and his voice is weak. “my love, i love you-”

he is the first to say it this time. he has begun something again, and he clings to it, repeats the words over and over and over again until grantaire whispers to him to shush and kisses him softly.

“we can talk of love later, enjolras,” grantaire tells him, helping him off the roof. his legs are so weak. “let me help you sober up first, sweetheart. you’re drunk on the stars.”


End file.
